Spencer
My head is pounding and my stomach aches in the morning. I roll over, my hand flailing to shut the blaring alarm off. When I can't find my phone, I groan and flop onto my back, pressing my palms over my ears. Goddamn Lennon must've moved it. It's his way of enacting petty revenge for picking me up at such a late hour.
For several seconds, I try to ignore the alarm, willing myself to fall asleep again. But it's no use. With another exaggerated groan, I slide off of the bed, easing myself down to my knees. Then I crawl across the floor until I reach the dresser. Grabbing the cord, I wrench my phone down and shut the alarm off. My phone clatters to the floor while I expel another groan, despite the quiet ambience that has settled around me.
Through the open window, I can hear birds chirping and feel the breeze trickling through. The sun is warm on my face, making my sensitive eyes tremble. I squeeze them shut and knock my head against the dresser, wishing last night never happened.
It's happened, though, and I deserve to pay the price. Which means I have to get my shit together.
Just as I'm about to climb to my feet, my phone dings. My posture slouches and I grab my phone, forcing my eyes to look at the bright screen. The text is from Lennon.
LENNON: Did you fall? Do I need to call an ambulance?
SPENCER: 🖕🏻
LENNON: Happy to hear you're okay, sis♥️ Whenever you're ready, there's coffee and pancakes.
That's why I love my brother.
Sighing, I drag my ass to the bathroom, leaving my phone on the dresser. Before stripping out of my pyjamas, I start the shower. I need hot water, steam, and lots of soap to get rid of the memories. Seeing my friends was a party, but the night ended as a shit-show. When I look in the mirror, my hands gripping the edge of the sink, I feel the embarrassment spread through my chest. My hair is sticking up in every direction. The mascara and eyeliner have seeped into the pores beneath my eyes, making me look like a tired raccoon. Lipstick is smudged around the corner of my mouth.
I push myself away from the sink, disgusted with my behaviour. I should not consume too much alcohol. On a normal day, I can utilize my self-control. When the buzz hits, I'll switch to water. Maybe it's the stress of moving. Perhaps my nerves are getting the best of me. Whatever the reason, I didn't listen to the logical voice inside my head.
I kick off my pyjama shorts and peel the baggy T-shirt off. I discard both to the floor. The slate of the walk-in shower is cool against my feet. It causes shivers to cascade down my spine. Tendrils of steam dissipate into the humid air, smelling of floral body wash and earth. Warm water rushes over me like a waterfall, eradicating the chills. I tilt my head back and sigh, a small smile on my lips. With each passing second, the knots fade from my shoulders. A shower is exactly what I need.
I stand under the water for twenty minutes, scrubbing last night's decisions away with the works: soap, coconut-scented shampoo and conditioner, and body wash. I make sure my face is free of makeup. Then I shave my legs and other patches of unwanted hair. When my skin is raw and pink, I shut the water off and step onto the tile.
Steam lingers in the air; the mirror is foggy and I can't see my reflection, only a blurry outline. From the shelving unit, I grab a towel and wrap it tightly around my body. It smells like laundry detergent, reminding me of Chase's shirt last night.
Chase.
The embarrassment returns full-force. It burns in my chest and cheeks. I close my eyes and knock my forehead against the mirror, groaning. All I have swimming in my hungover mind are fragments of my memories. The burger and fries. Chase's rough hands. His total geek-out moment. Lennon's arrival, and then a mention of a bucket.
I'm not sure what order those events happened.
Chase must think I'm an idiot. I think I'm an idiot. At least I can apologize to him before the game. Using my VIP status to apologize to him is a one time thing that would probably be frowned upon by co-workers. Do I care? No. Chase deserves an apology. Besides, what the franchise doesn't know won't hurt them. I'll go in, do my job, and then search for Chase by following the smell of artificial ice and oil.
Pushing away from the mirror, I throw my shoulders back and start getting ready. Applying makeup requires extra effort. Shades of blue, green, and purple pattern the skin around the gash on my forehead, just above my eyebrow. When I see it, the memory flitters across my mind. My heel caught on the leg of the stool and I fell. Once again, the embarrassment returns.
Something tells me I'll be kicking myself for the next month.
After applying my makeup and running a beach-wave product through my hair, I saunter into my bedroom. The closet is across from the bed. Living in an apartment and sharing a closet with Brandon was annoying. Having this bedroom is a luxury. No one's hogging the covers or taking up space in the closet with all their sports jerseys.
With water dripping down my back, I remove a black blazer, white low-cut scoop tank top, and a pair of green skinny jeans from my walk-in closet. The drawers are on the left. From the bottom drawer, I remove a lacy white bra and matching panties. Having matching undergarments rarely bothers me, but I feel like having a cohesive outfit will boost my confidence. Toss in some black high heels and red lipstick, and I'll be good to go.
Nothing says badass businesswoman like red lipstick and killer heels.
Shutting the door behind me, I hang the towel, and then dress. Although my shift doesn't start until later, I need to head into town early. There are finishing touches I need to put on my office. I also need to review the team roster and introduce myself to other staff members. When the interviews begin, I need to be on top of my game. I'm representing not only the franchise but also the West family. There's a lot riding on my last name.
With one last glance in the mirror, I gather my purse and head downstairs. My heels click against the hardwood floor. Down the hallway, I can hear the clanging of pots and pans. Even without Lennon's text, it's easy to tell he's in the kitchen. He can cook up some mean meals, but he's as quiet as a moose crashing through the forest. I can also smell the coffee and pancakes. Something tells me he's made bacon, too.
When I enter the kitchen, there's a steaming cup of coffee waiting for me. The oat milk and honey sit next to it. Lennon's back is to me. He's stirring what appears to be an omelette. Next to him, in another pan, are pancakes.
My stomach grumbles at the sight of them.
I sit down at the island, dropping my face into my hands. "Please tell me those are your chocolate-chip peanut butter protein pancakes."
"With extra butter and maple syrup. Classic season-opener pre-game breakfast. Want a plate?"
"Please," I reply.
While Lennon dishes me up a plate, I doctor up my coffee. I add a few splashes of oat milk and a drizzle of honey. The first sip makes my insides happy; warmth spreads through my chest as the bittersweet taste explodes across my tastebuds. It's the best thing I've consumed for at least ten hours.
A few seconds later, Lennon sets a plate down in front of me. It's filled with two pancakes covered in maple syrup, an omelette with cheese, green onions, and mushrooms, and three pieces of bacon. He removes a fork from the drawer and hands it to me.
"Thanks," I say. "For everything."
When I glance at Lennon, he's smiling at me. Underneath the concern, there's a hint of amusement. The longer I stare at him, the more prominent the amusement becomes. When the corner of his mouth twitches, he looks away, loosening a low chuckle.
I shake my head and bite back a smile. "Go ahead. Laugh it up, Len. I was a wreck last night."
He snorts. "You were more than a wreck. You were a wreck with a piling heap of disaster on the side. The vomiting was a cherry on top."
I shovel a forkful of omelette into my mouth. It's delicious. Tangy from the cheese, onion-y, and delicious. Having sustenance makes my stomach feel better, and my head feels clearer. Maybe my first day on the job won't be so painstaking.
"It's fine, though," he continues. "Like Chase said, we've all been there before. If I remember correctly, you had to drag me down the hallway when we were fifteen."
The mention of Chase makes my cheeks flush pink. I shovel more food into my mouth. Maybe, if I accidentally choke, I won't have to face him.
"Ah, yes," I muse. "The illegal years. Isn't it convenient how Mom and Dad are never home when we're drunk?" I pause, glancing around the kitchen. Mom's purse is usually next to the bowl of fruit. It's strange, especially this early, to see it missing. "Speaking of Mom and Dad, where are they?"
"They went out for breakfast." He gestures to his food. "We all have our routines before and during the season. Dad thinks taking Mom out for breakfast gains him brownie points with Karma. Mine is keeping myself busy until the puck drops." His voice lowers an octave. "Spence. This is my first year with a legit spot on the roster."
Lennon's green eyes are full of concern again. He also won't stop tapping his fingers against the counter. There's a lot of pressure on his shoulders. I wish I could remove some of it, but we're both taking steps forward in our careers tonight. As selfish as it sounds, I have to focus on my job more than Lennon's. However, that doesn't mean I can't be a supportive sister.
"Lennon," I say. "Why did you make the team?"
"Because Dad's the GM?" he jokes.
I give him a look.
He clears his throat. "Because I worked hard and proved I could make a difference."
On the tall chair, I shift to my knees and lean over the counter. I give Lennon's shoulder a squeeze. "There we go, big brother. Now, was that hard to say?"
Lennon rolls his eyes and turns back to his food. I sit down again, keeping my face tilted downward so he can't see the visible smirk. As talented as Lennon is, he doesn't like to brag about himself. He hates it even more when I'm bragging and making valid points.
After another bite of omelette, I say, "Seriously, Lennon. You've got this." I shrug. "I'll write a fantastic article about you after the interviews that'll be available to the public tomorrow morning. Even if you trip over your skates, my flawless writing will overpower your mistakes." I take a sip of my coffee. "The ice will also be in mint condition."
When Lennon looks at me, the sparkle is back in his eyes. "Good to know I can always count on you, Spence."
I point my fork at him. "Just don't piss me off. A woman who writes is a dangerous creature."
From his pocket, Lennon removes his iPhone. "Since we're discussing ice conditions, I have something to show you. The Zam Man sent me a text message about you."
My stomach does a funny flip. This time, it isn't influenced by alcohol.
Lennon slides his phone across the counter.
Before I pick it up, I give him a questionable look.
CHASE: Just wanted to check up on Spencer. Is she okay? She left her credit card behind. I can bring it to work today. Hope she's feeling better.
My grip tightens on the phone. Chase is asking about me, and he doesn't seem disgusted by my behaviour. A powerful urge to steal Lennon's phone and run jolts through my veins. Re-reading Chase's text all day doesn't seem like a bad idea. There are so many ways to decipher his words.
Chase wanted to check up on me. He asked if I'm okay. He has my credit card, kept it safe, and wants to bring it to work. Hope she's feeling better.
As my mind analyzes, I make myself look busy by cutting the pancakes into tiny squares. The greater the surface area, the more maple syrup they can absorb. I need a lot of sugar.
I take a bite of the pancake, chewing with thought. I'm unsure of what time Chase arrives at the arena. Something tells me he prefers to be early. I'm also under the assumption that there's a lot of prep work prior to getting the Zamboni on the ice. I could wait until after the game, too. Either way, I need to meet up with Chase.
"Do you want me to grab the card?" Lennon asks. He takes a bite of bacon. "I always see Chase before the game."
"No!" I exclaim. "And don't talk with your mouth full."
Lennon swallows and clucks his tongue. His eyebrows are halfway up his forehead. "Someone's smitten."
I shoot him a frown. "Am not. It's my credit card. I don't trust it in your hands. You'll ditch town and splurge on thousand dollar suits and expensive food."
"Fuck that," he laughs. "You still have a crush on him. Admit it. Don't worm your way out of this one, Spence. You suggested you and Chase collaborate on a couple's costume last night."
My fork clatters to the plate, and I cover my mouth with both hands. The embarrassment in my gut is like a roiling boil. "What? Which characters? Oh my god. I should bury myself in the sand."
Lennon analyzes my emotions. His voice is soft when he says, "Spence. Don't be embarrassed. Chase and Kayce watch this shit a lot. Everyone does it in their life. Besides, it seemed like Chase was on board. I mean... he said little, but he had a look. It was like his inner nerd couldn't handle the proposal."
My heartbeat pounds in my throat. I swallow. "What kind of look?"
He shakes his head and makes a zipper motion across his lips. "I'm not ratting out my best friend. You can figure that out yourself." A sly smirk crosses his lips. "Maybe when you collect your credit card."
"Lennon!" I groan. "You can't do this to me!"
"I can and I will," he grins.
I roll my eyes. "Okay, Matchmaker. Keep your secrets. When you pine after someone, I'm going to hold it over your head."
His grin broadens. Lennon's eating my embarrassment up. He loves this kind of banter. Especially when he's winning. As much as I tease him, he has the upper hand. I have not thought my words and actions out; they've been too obvious. I'll blame that on the alcohol. But the ferocity in my voice when I told Lennon I'd get the credit card... The way my stomach did a funny flip... Even just thinking about Chase. Those are factors where the blame falls on my shoulders.
I rest my chin on my fist and exhale.
And here I thought my teenage crush was dormant.
* * *
After a three-hour unplanned socializing event, Dad sets me free. There's an hour until puck drop, and I'm on a mission for painkillers, coffee, and finding Chase. The painkillers are first. From my purse, I remove two ibuprofen and swallow them with a sip of water. I leave the water bottle behind on my desk, gather my purse, and head out the door, making sure it's locked behind me.
Privacy matters in my job. My notes and drafts are sacred. Someone could steal them and then have them published. That's a risk I don't want to take. As a journalist for the team, it's my duty to filter information and choose appropriate language. Interviews have to be constructive and focused on the event.
I tuck my key in my pocket and step into the hallway. It's spacious, with several doors lining it and a lounging room at the far end. It's all the big-league offices: general manager, assistant general manager, et cetera. The little plaques hanging beside the doors look professional. When I see my name, I have to pause and run my fingers over the blue-and-white plaque. A small smile makes my lips twist to the side.
Spencer West.
It looks stunning.
The proud smile doesn't fade from my lips as I head down the hallway.
At the end, I take a right. It leads to an enclosed area with elevators. When I press the button, the elevator dings and I step into it, riding it down to ground-level. Using my memory of Lennon's tour, I pass by the check-in area and take a left. In the opposite direction is the entryway the players and staff use when attending games and practices. It's a way to avoid encountering a fan.
The door leads to the arena's inner workings. I scan my staff card and step through, breathing in the cool air. The smell of artificial ice makes my nose burn a little. As I'm walking along the perimetre of the ice, behind the plexiglass, I can't help but gaze around in wonder.
When Lennon gave me a tour, I hadn't officially started my job. Being here feels like a dream. I have a staff card! An office! Soon, I'll be getting a sweater like the one Chase and the rest of the staff wears.
I knew I was right to trust my gut and take this job. Anyone who doubted me can go fuck themselves. Brandon can go fuck himself.
A few minutes later, I'm in the backroom, where they keep the Zamboni and any ice-related tools. The ground is concrete, and the chemical smell is stronger back here. I pass by garbage bins and snow shovels, hockey nets, and some tools before rounding the soft-shouldered corner. Before me, I see the Zamboni.
And then I see Chase.
There's a bucket of water beside his feet. A dry cloth hangs over his shoulder while he scrubs the front of the Zamboni with a wet cloth. Soapy water drips down his arms, wetting the fabric of his tight-fitting white T-shirt. I glimpse a tattoo on his inner right forearm. His dark-blue track pants hang snug around his waist; they conform to his body but they're not too tight. As per usual, he's wearing a hat.
Realizing I've been staring too long, I clear my throat. "Chase."
He turns around. His hat is low. It obscures his face, only giving me views of his angular jawbone and the shadow of his stubble. It's difficult to make eye contact. Maybe he doesn't want to make eye contact with me. My behaviour last night was unacceptable, so I can't blame him. Perhaps the text message was just to be polite. I could've analyzed it too much.
My lips part, ready to express the apology.
Chase crosses his arms and interrupts me. "Spencer. If you're about to apologize, I'm gonna tell you to shut up."
His voice is gruff and his posture is rigid. They're a stark comparison to last night. But no different from when I first met him. This back and forth between kind and broody is migraine-inducing. However, my intuition tells me there's more at play here. Chase was the prodigy before the fight. I can't imagine how painful it is to hang up your skates at such a young age. What kid doesn't dream of becoming a professional hockey player? Being in the arena could trigger him to a certain degree.
Chase blows out an exaggerated breath. "Spencer. What are you doing here?"
His full lips curve around the words. I'm jealous of those words.
My tongue slides across my bottom lip. "I'm here to pick up my credit card."
He blinks a few times. "Fuck. Right. I forgot about that. Give me a second."
Chase saunters over to the tool bench and hoists an old knapsack up. Over his shoulder, I watch as he rummages through and removes a wallet. From the battered leather wallet, he removes my credit card. It's shiny under the fluorescent lighting.
When Chase comes back, he sets his lips in a firm line and holds the card out to me. There are no emotions on his face. He doesn't try to make conversation.
"What the hell is your problem?" I demand.
As soon as the words are out, I bite my tongue. My question is a little rude. However, it is valid. Chase is acting like there's a stick shoved up his ass.
He cocks an eyebrow. "Nothing. Here's your card."
I pluck the card from his hand and tuck it into the pocket of my pants. "Well, thank you Zam Man." His expression darkens, and I bite back a smile. Two can play at this game. He should know I like to fight fire with fire. "Where did you find my credit card?"
"Under the stool."
I close my eyes, pissed at myself and Chase. Myself for getting drunk. Chase for giving me nothing but choppy answers. "Of course."
I open my eyes and sigh. Maybe I am a fool. This dorky crush I have seems so juvenile now.
What is it with men?
Their looks can be so compelling, but then their attitudes suck. Or vice versa. Either way, women never get the full package. Which means I will be single forever because I refuse to settle for less than I deserve.
But hope is like the seed of doubt: present in my gut. Chase didn't save my ass last night for no reason. There has to be a reason he's chalking up his shitty attitude. Unknown reasons aside, I don't have time to sit and solve this puzzle. I'm scheduled for pre-game and post-game interviews, and I have to draft the "behind-the-scenes" blog I'm working on for away games.
"Well," I say, "thanks for keeping my card safe. I'll see you around."
Chase grunts and turns back to his work. My shoulders deflate. Giving him the benefit of the doubt is pointless. This is the second time I've seen him act grumpy. It must be a characteristic. Not because someone pissed in his cereal this morning.
Turning away, I head for the exit, my heart a little heavy. Despite my drunken mind last night, I thought there was a bit of chemistry between us. There's a part of me that wants my intuition to be wrong. Maybe someone did piss in his cereal this morning. But if not, I'm curious why he's so jaded.
Halfway there, I stop and look over my shoulder.
Chase is staring at me. His bottom lip catches between his teeth, and when he notices me staring back, he shakes his head and turns away. Whatever he's muttering, I'll never know. Judging by his posture, they're not friendly words. I have to admit, it hurts a little.
Yet jealousy overrides my emotions. Those damn words he keeps spewing are selfish—hogging his lips like that. Lips—Chase's especially—make good, wordless conversation.
Shaking my head, I turn away and watch my heels click against the stained cement.
My shitty romance life can wait.
As of right now, I'm on the clock.